Monty Python's Forcibly Revised Flying Circus
by The Illustrious Crackpot
Summary: Our favorite Pythons have been miraculously restored to their conditions in the 70s and are pitching a new TV show! But can they conform to the decency codes the BBC now enforce?


_NOTE: This fanfiction is rated "T" simply because of _Monty Python's_ age interest group and a few risqué jokes. There's no graphic description, violence or severe naughtiness of any kind._

_Well, not SEVERE..._

**Monty Python's**

(Forcibly Revised)

**Flying Circus**

(Transcribed by The Illustrious Crackpot)

Far off in merry old Britain...well, it's not _always_ so merry...sometimes it can be quite depressed, or maybe even a little _moody_, but...well, let's just call it "jolly" and hang the whole discussion.

(Not that "jolly" is such a bleeding good word anyways...)

**BANG.**

Excuse us. The person who just wrote that parenthetical phrase has been court marshalled and shot.

(Not really.)

**BANG.**

We're sorry. The person who just wrote that we'd court marshalled and shot the person who wrote that parenthetical phrase has been court marshalled and shot, as well as the person who wrote that parenthetical phrase.

Ahem. Anyways, off in Britain, which is not particularly merry or depressing at all, there was a building called the British Broadcasting Company. Well, it wasn't so much a _building_ as a _company_...

Oh dear, I'm getting déjà vu.

(Far off in merry old Britain—

**BANG.**

Thank you for waiting, we apologize for the inconvenience. Let's just skip to the BBC building, all right?

In the innermost offices of the BBC, the head of the company and several of the top executives were alone in a darkened room.

Not doing _that_, you pervert.

They were waiting for something, and pretty soon that something entered. Actually, it's a bit offensive to call six men "something", but in their case I don't think it would have mattered very much to them, though this is of course not implying in any way that they were not _human_, with human interests at heart (as well as in their lower bodies)—

**BANG.**

One of the BBC executives looked up from his desk as the six men entered. He stood solemnly—what does that mean anyways?—and held out his hand. One of the men in the back, a short man with black hair who looked like he really _should_ have a mustache, handed the executive a video tape.

"Terry Jones," acknowledged—_another_ big word?!—the man, nodding as he took the tape. "Thank you."

Another executive spoke, that is, he opened his mouth and words came out. "Does it meet the restricted requirements? You know, you can't do the same things on the air as you could thirty years ago."

Another of the six men, a tall character with a good frame—he was hanging up a picture later—and black hair with a receding hairline, some guy named John Cleese, nodded, his eyes wide. "Oh yes, we edited it," he proclaimed, then muttered under his breath, "don't see why we bloody _had_ to..."

Another very official-looking person (unfortunately I couldn't get her phone number) stood up and began to talk, again, opening her mouth and making words come out. "John...Eric...Michael...Graham...Terry...other Terry...we've given you some leeway before, what with Graham miraculously coming back from the dead—"

"I wasn't dead!" a tall man with sandy hair and a pointed nose innocently protested. "I was only _restin'!_"

"_He is not dead yet_..." sang Eric Idle, a younger man with brown hair, strumming a guitar that had not been there before.

The female executive rolled her eyes, then exasperatedly popped them back into her skull. "All right, since Graham _woke up_, and then the sudden paranormal rejuvenation of all your body cells into the state they were in in the mid-seventies...well, we gave you some space, but if _Monty Python's Flying Circus_ is being rebroadcast with new episodes, you're simply going to have to follow the rules."

A young man with russet brown hair, Michael Palin, jumped up. "_Rules?_" he screeched, jumping onto the desk and glancing around. "I'm _afraid_ of rules! And eighty-foot-tall porcupines!"

A smaller man with somewhat long hair and a square face tugged on Michael's sleeve and made him get down. (PARTY! _Get down tonight!_)

**BANG.**

Sorry to interrupt.

"Even animation follows rules, Mike," he explained, because this guy was Terry Gilliam, the animator person. Well, we _told_ you it was _Monty Python_, and then he was the only _Python_ member not introduced yet, so _obviously_ that's who it must have been, _duuuuuuh_.

"I believe that this will be in accordance with the guidelines, BBC people," Terry Jones interrupted, giving a look to John Cleese. John nodded, and Terry Gilliam smiled wickedly.

Michael Palin began a long, dramatic laugh that sounded something like "HAAAHAHAHAAHAHAAA! MUWAHAHAHAAHAAAHAHAHAAHAH!! WAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHA naughty bits HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!"

The BBC people gave them a suspicious look.

Mike shut up.

One of the other official-looking people put the tape in a tape player—where _else_ are you supposed to put a tape, you _fairy?_—and pressed _play_. Well, when Eric Idle was done with the Tiddlywinks, they started the tape.

"Now I'm warning you," warned the lady BBC person, "that content better all be _acceptable_."

"To whom?" asked Graham, then was elbowed by John.

The tape began to play.

* * *

"In 1972," a tired announcer's voice announces—what _else_ would it do, silly?—while the camera pans over a desert scene. (Chocolate ice cream mountains rose over the hills, complete with a _blancmange_ topping and—)

**BANG.**

Look, we're _really_ sorry about all this, but it _was_ "desert" with _one_ "s", as in sand and stuff like that, not _two_ "s"s.

"In 1972," a tired announcer's voice announces again as the camera pans, "a legend is about to be fulfilled as a young man reaches the fabled treasure of Agrabah."

The camera zooms towards a small oasis in the desert. Michael Palin, wearing a mustache and a cowboy hat, is sitting on a rock. He wipes away some sweat—notice the "a" in there and, unless you're a really bad speller, you'll realize that we have _not_ returned to the desserts—and kneels by the edge of the pool. Keeping his eyes on the pool—and by this we mean he's _watching_ it, obviously—he reaches up and tugs on the leaf of a palm tree behind him. As he lets go, the tree shrinks into the ground with some _really_ wild sound effects. About two seconds later, the water drains out of the pool to show a white door in the ground. Michael Palin looks up at the camera, then turns the doorknob of the door in the ground and opens it, jumping down.

He hits the bottom, and the camera shows that he is in a sandy, dusty room. Michael Palin rubs his forehead, then the camera focuses on him as he looks up. His eyes widen immensely, and his mustache almost falls off. Then, over his shock, he smiles gleefully, and the camera pulls back—

—to show a room filled top to bottom with women's underwear.

Rushing delightedly over, Michael grabs one and holds it up, stretching it out so the camera can see it properly. Searching through the pile and throwing the garments aside in his fervor, the camera focuses on Michael again as his eyes widen once more. The camera angle cuts back to the full room again, and Michael backs away from the underwear as something starts to rise up from the bottom of the pile. As the intrepid explorer retreats to a corner, John Cleese in a suit and tie rises from the pile of underwear, facing the camera.

"And now," he states, "for something completely different."

* * *

The female executive of the BBC stood up quickly as the Terry Gilliam-animated opening credits accompanied the familiar _Monty Python_ theme music. "WHAT," she gasped indignantly—though they were _really_ in London, _not _Dignantly—"was _that?!_"

Eric Idle looked up innocently. "Women's underwear," he shrugged. "What about it?"

The woman stalked over to him. "That's _disgusting!_" she protested, then marched (though it was _really_ July) over to the VCR. "We warned you fellows," she warned the fellows, "that we wouldn't tolerate any of _that_ anymore. I'm afraid we'll have to disregard your pitch."

Graham Chapman stood up quickly—that is, with quickness. "You can't do that!" he protested. "I mean, I came back from _restin'_ and all—"

A male BBC employee sat up in his chair. "Let's go with them on this one, Female Employee," he objected. "It's not _that_ bad. Besides, who _ever_ watches stuff this closely _anyways?_"

The lady employee ground her teeth. Without the help of a mortar and pestle, though, the action was useless and had no point except to return everyone's attention to the video, where the opening sequence had just finished. (There was another pair of women's undergarments present in there, but Terry Jones distracted everyone from that fact by pretending there was a tiger outside until that bit was over.)

* * *

The setup in the new sketch is a hospital. The walls are completely white—as in the color of white, we're not racist pigs (in fact, we're not pigs at all, oink oink that would be—

**BANG.**

It's very crowded, with gorgeous nurses running all over the place. There is also a desk, behind which sits Terry Jones in a surgeon's uniform. He's flipping through a couple of papers on his desk when a man in a suit, Graham Chapman, walks up to him.

"Excuse me, sir," says Graham, leaning over the desk and talking to the doctor, "but I...eh, I donated a kidney here a couple of days ago...?"

Terry looks up from the papers, which the camera angle shows are _Playboy_ magazines. (Heh heh heh...)

**BANG.**

"Hmm?" he asks, looking at Graham. "Oh yes, I remember...you gave your kidney to a patient who needed a transplant."

Graham looks around nervously. "Yes, yes I did," he says, looking not at Terry but at one of the female nurses. Terry is looking in that same direction, so there's really nothing to worry about there, he wasn't feeling left out.

As soon as the nurse is out of the camera's viewpoint (Darnit!)

**BANG.**

Terry and Graham turn back to looking at each other. "Did you want to find out how the recipient of your kidney is doing?" Terry asks brightly—and we mean he was being cheerful, not that he had a hundred watts of electricity being pumped through him. "He's recuperating in room 201."

Graham looks around again before he talks to Terry. "Actually, no, I don't want to see how he's doing," he says, "I want my kidney back."

Terry Jones blinks. "What?" he asks.

"My kidney," repeats Graham. "I want it back, I decided I don't want it in someone else's body after all."

Terry Jones looks from side to side as if this was some kind of joke—well, this IS _Monty Python's Flying Circus_—and smiles nervously. "I'm sorry, but we can't give it back to you," he says. "We already put it in the sick man and sewed him up!"

Another pretty nurse walks by, and the two men stop talking to stare after her again. When she's gone, they turn back to the conversation. "I don't _care!_" protests Graham, leaning over the desk. "I want my kidney back! My other kidney feels _lonely_."

Terry is still dumbstruck. "But we _can't_ give it back!" he protests right back. "As I told you, the patient is still recovering from his surgery!"

Graham is annoyed at not getting his kidney back. He says, "Look, if I wait until he's recovered, _then_ will you cut him open and give me my kidney back?"

Terry blinks. "Well..." he says, thinking hard, "what if I checked _you_ into the hospital for a kidney transplant, and we found someone else with the same type of kidney, and we give you _that_ instead?"

Graham is rather distraught now. "I don't _want_ someone else's kidney!" he yells, banging his fist on the desk. "I want _my_ kidney back! I miss it!"

Terry backs away from the desk until Graham calms himself back down. "Look," Graham suggests, "what if the man who got my kidney suddenly died? _Then_ could you give me my kidney back?"

"Well, I suppose—" Terry starts, but Graham has walked away from the camera's viewpoint and down a different hallway. Terry shrugs and reads _Playboy_ again. Twenty seconds later, however, a strangled scream is heard and Graham walks back in front of the desk with a bloody knife in his hands and blood on his face and suit.

"He's dead now," Graham announces innocently.

Terry hesitates a second, then shrugs. "OK," he says, and the two of them walk off-camera together.

**SCENE CHANGE!**

The camera cuts to a Terry Gilliam animation of a man wearing glasses standing in a fuzzy background. The man is making weird grumbling noises, and he takes off his glasses and rubs them on his sleeve before putting them back on. He's still grumbling, and takes his glasses off again to rub them with a handkerchief before putting them back on. Continuing to grumble, he grabs a bucket of water, takes off his glasses and sloshes them around in the water repeatedly with some _really_ strange sound effects. He puts them back on and grumbles again. Now he takes off his glasses, pulls out a bazooka and aims it at the glasses, blowing the lenses out with a gigantic explosion. The background of the scene immediately becomes less fuzzy, and the camera pulls back to show him standing on the cover of a magazine ad for more women's undergarments.

"Hm," he grunts, smiling, "glad I fixed those glasses then!"

He grows wings and flies away...

* * *

The BBC executives looked around at each other, then at the six _Python_ boys. Well, they weren't pythons as in that they were huge, poisonous snakes, but they were from _Monty Python's Flying Circus_ and all, and...

One of the BBC executives looked blankly at Eric Idle. "What the bloody hell was that _about?_" he asked.

Eric stared innocently at him. (Rather innocently, considering all the girls he's—

**RAT-A-TAT-A-TAT-A-TAT-A-TAT.**

Sorry, we just thought we'd upgrade to better weaponry to make _sure_ those blasted parenthetical writers don't get back here. AHEM...

Eric stared innocently at him. "Are you asking _me?_" he asked. Eric pointed at Terry Gilliam. "_He's_ the one who made that cartoon!"

Terry Gilliam, who had almost gone to sleep, looked up. Finding nothing interesting on the ceiling, he instead stared at the female BBC executive. Instead of picking up on his hint, however, the lady repeated the question. "What was the point of that cartoon?"

Terry G. stopped to think for a minute...then maybe longer...then a little longer. "I have absolutely no idea," he stated.

Terry Jones stepped in for him—then stepped back to where he was standing before. "Was it supposed to have a point?" he asked.

The female executive stared at him funny, and we mean _oddly_ funny, not _ha-ha_ funny. "Of _course!_" she cried out. "In this day and age, the only shows that go on television are the ones with a _point!_"

"Then how come America keeps broadcasting _American Idol_ and _Survivor_?" John Cleese pointed out.

_—We will now courteously pause while you decide whether or not that joke was worth the lawsuit.—_

"He _is_ right," one of the male executives pointed out.

The lady rolled her eyes. "All right, all _right_," she grumbled. "And if _we_ were interested in broadcasting shows that had a point why would we even _consider_ calling _you_ six?" She slumped back in her chair, momentarily defeated. "Let's just hurry up and get this over with so I can go have a cuppa' tea and _forget_ all about this."

Graham Chapman rewound the tape to the point they had left off on and they started to watch some more.

* * *

The new setup is outer space, with BBC stock footage of the Universe and the stars and space in general panning out before the audience as if it were actually a continuous view of outer space. The landscape rolls for a few minutes until suddenly, superimposed over one of the film strips, a desk is shown floating aimlessly in outer space. This the audience might be tittering off lightly, but the desk is soon joined by an upside-down lamp drifting away near it, which is followed by a floating stack of paper, a telephone, an intercom, and finally a comfortable swivel chair. As these pass, John Cleese, upside down and with mussed hair and tie, in a business suit, floats by as well, focusing intently on the camera. "And now," he announces, "for a Party Political broadcast."

**SCENE CHANGE!**

The camera cuts to Eric Idle lounging on the beach surrounded by scads of beautiful women in bathing suits. Eric himself is in swimming trunks and sunglasses, spread-eagled on a towel as the caption at the bottom of the screen proclaims him to be "Mr. Amalgus Warren Surrey Cruften Blargle Maztrin Pruxtly Fuvton Zacharnip Waxtion Pants-on-a-Stick Duffer, MD., Phd., BSC., Ltd., I.O.U., ETC., representative of the Snardlepiff Party". Once the captions have effectively related all this information, Eric (aka Mr. Amalgus Warren Surrey Waxtion Pants-on-a—

**CRACK, THWACK, _CRUNCH_.**

_That_ ought to keep them from escaping.

Eric turns to the camera, taking off his sunglasses and squinting. "My good citizens," he begins, "we of the Snardlepiff Party have been often ridiculed in the past elections for the extravagance of the pampering of our candidates." As he says this, he pauses to be hand-fed a grape from one of the beautiful maidens surrounding him. Speaking past the grape, he protests, "Now this is simply _not_ true. We of the Snardlepiff Party are _hard-working_ individuals. We will deliver anything you desire of us..." He arches his eyebrows meaningfully. "_Anything_." Taking out a remote control, he points it at the screen while another woman massages him. "This is just a sampling of the..._satisfaction_ the candidates have given those who have elected them in the past years."

* * *

Before the on-screen Eric could actually start reeling the clips, the female BBC executive stormed up to the VCR and turned it off. "_That_," she announced, her voice quivering with rage, "is simply _enough_."

Graham Chapman glanced up in confusion. "What?" he asked.

The female employee swept her gaze across all of them before the janitor suggested that a broom was much better for sweeping. "You," she declared, glaring at the _Monty Python_ characters, "were _deliberately_ going to show _lewd_, _provocative_, _erotic_ filmstrips in this office after we _expressly_ asked for _decency_ in what you were going to show!" She took in a deep breath, smoothing her hair back in anger. "We're rejecting the proposal."

They took it rather badly, I'm afraid. Michael Palin jumped on top of the desk, clawing at his face and screaming "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!" Eric Idle fainted. Terry Gilliam slunk over to a corner and huddled in it in the fetal position. Terry Jones burst out in sobs. Graham Chapman began babbling incoherently. Only John Cleese retained his composure—though he looked as if he was about to explode—and pleaded with the female executive instead.

"Look," he insisted, "you haven't even seen the footage. I promise it's not crude or..._provocative_, or any of the other things you said."

The female executive glowered at him. ...And _no_, no matter _what_ it's spelled like, that word has _nothing_ whatsoever to do with _glowing_. "All right," she grumbled. "But if you're lying, I swear you'll all be out on your—"

Thankfully, the tape started right before she had time to say the _very_ naughty word she was about to utter.

* * *

In keeping with that incredibly annoying habit of tape players, the machine had rewound the tape before playing it again.

Taking out a remote control, Eric points it at the screen while another woman massages him. "This is just a sampling of the..._satisfaction_ the candidates have given those who have elected them in the past years."

Holding the control at a jauntily suggestive angle, he presses the button with exasperating slowness—

—and starts a reel of films of such things as the _Python_ boys in various disguises, including drag, slapping each other with cats, running themselves over in cars, jumping out of airplanes holding weights, and other such incredibly silly things that they would have thought of, all set to a pleasant little tune. Presently, though, the camera cuts.

**SCENE CHANGE!**

Graham Chapman is now sitting on top of a wooden crate wearing a brown suit and tie. In the background of him are stock footage clips of mass destruction and war, playing continuously as if Graham was sitting down on a wooden crate right in front of a huge battleground. "In retaliation," he drawls, "a Party Political broadcast from the opposers, the Ratcatching Party."

As the camera pulls away from him, a wayward grenade sails over to Graham and explodes him in a great ball of fire. Not _actually_ blowing him up, or how could he be in the BBC executives' office?

**SCENE CHANGE!**

The camera cuts to Eric Idle lounging on the beach surrounded by scads of beautiful women in bathing suits. Eric himself is in swimming trunks and sunglasses, spread-eagled on a towel as the caption at the bottom of the screen proclaims him to be "Mr. Surrey Amalgus Fuvton Warren Zacharnip Pruxtly Cruften Maztrin Waxtion Blargle Pants-on-a-Stick Duffer, MD., Phd., BSC., Ltd., I.O.U., ETC., representative of the Ratcatching Party". Once the captions have effectively related all this information, Eric turns to the camera, taking off his sunglasses and squinting.

"My good citizens," he begins, "we of the Ratcatching Party have been often ridiculed in the past elections for the extravagance of the pampering of our candidates." As he says this, he pauses to be hand-fed a grape from one of the beautiful maidens surrounding him. Speaking past the grape, he protests, "Now this is simply _not_ true. The Snardlepiff Party are the _true_ spenders, and we would like to show you some of the extravagant..." He arches his eyebrows meaningfully. "..._satisfaction_ the candidates have given those who have elected them in the past years."

Taking out a remote control, Eric points it at the screen while another woman massages him. Holding the control at a jauntily suggestive angle, he presses the button with exasperating slowness—

—and starts the same reel of films of such things as the _Python_ boys in various disguises, including drag, slapping each other with cats, running themselves over in cars, jumping out of airplanes holding weights, and other such incredibly silly things that they would have thought of, all set to a pleasant little tune. Presently, though, the camera cuts.

**SCENE CHANGE!**

Michael Palin sits behind a desk in front of a blank screen with a smug expression on his face. "Well," he announces with a cocky air, "so much for the Party Political broadcast. And now for the game show you've all been waiting for..." He pauses dramatically—

* * *

"I need to use the _loo_," John Cleese announced, getting up from his seat and walking out the door.

The BBC executives looked around at each other.

"That was a rather pointless interruption," commented one.

* * *

He pauses dramatically, then flashing neon lights burst into the air around him as he says, " 'WHO'S IN THE LOO?' "

Michael chuckles as prerecorded applause plays in the background. "Yes, once again it's time for 'Who's in the loo'. Tonight our lucky contestant is a..." Michael takes out a roll of toilet paper, unrolling it and scanning it with his eyes. "...Mrs. Nora Edwards of Chipping Sodsbury!"

The canned applause plays again as Terry Jones, hunched over and heavily in drag, shuffles up to the desk Michael is sitting at. Michael gets up, laughing again. "Mrs. Edwards, are you ready to play the game?" he asks.

Terry smiles. "Yes, very much," he replies in his cackly woman's voice.

Michael laughs again with his fake gameshow laugh. (Very fake, seeing as—

(Huh. Guess they forgot about u—

**BANG. KA-_THWOOOOOM_.**

Aha! _That_ was a trick to lure them out. Sorry, keep on with your reading.

Michael laughs again with his fake gameshow laugh. "Do you know how to play, Mrs. Edwards?" he asks. Without even waiting for Terry's nod, Michael goes on with it. "Well, I'll tell you." The screen behind him lights up with an image of a darkened lavatory with a silhouette of a man—a man with a pompadour—inside sitting on the toilet. "Here we have our _loo_," Michael explains. "And here is our man _inside_ the loo. Mrs. Edwards, it is your part to guess exactly"—the neon lights flash up again—" _'Who is in the loo'_!"

Terry Jones looks around anxiously. Michael does the gameshow laugh again. "You've got three tries, Mrs. Edwards, so don't panic if you don't get it right on the first shot."

Terry considers it for a moment, looking at the screen. "Um..." he stammers, "Martin Smith of Croydon?"

Michael does the gameshow laugh again, looking very happy, then suddenly switching back to a straight face he says, "No."

Terry is still apprehensive. "Um...um, uh..."

"Now, don't be afraid," Michael says with a wide smile.

"Um..." Terry guesses, "The Philharmonic Orchestra?"

Michael does the gameshow laugh again, looking very happy, then suddenly switching back to a straight face he says, "No."

(I think there's some repetition going o—

**BANG.**

Déjà vu.

Laughing the fake laugh again, Michael looks right at the camera before he looks back to Terry. "One last try," he encourages. "Remember, there's no pressure at all...but _also_ remember that losers in this game are thrown into the _piranha pool_."

**SCENE CHANGE!**

The camera cuts to show a Terry Gilliam-animated fish swimming around with a napkin and fork.

**SCENE CHANGE!**

The camera cuts back on a very nervous Terry Jones. Terry looks around from side to side, staring at the television screen as hard as possible. "Um," Terry stammers, "um, uh—" Finally it seems like he's got it. "ELVIS!"

Michael's gameshow smile fades instantly. His face contorts into a spasm of anguish, and he staggers off to the side clawing at his face and swearing. Huffing and out of breath, he stumbles back to the television screen and presses a button, at which point the view of the lavatory is lit up to show—

—John Cleese sitting on the toilet with a fake Elvis pompadour, along with a garish Elvis outfit and a gold medallion around his neck. As the light comes on, he drops his newspaper and looks around from side to side. "A-hunka-hunka _huh?!_"

* * *

The BBC executives looked around at each other. "Wait a minute..." starts one employee. "Didn't he just...leave for the loo..._here?_"

The female executive shrugs. "Weird coincidence," she mutters.

* * *

Michael, gritting his teeth, faces Terry again. "Yes, that's _correct_," he mutters angrily. Trying—and failing—to put his gameshow smile back on, he says, "I _suppose_ you win our grand prize, then?"

Terry nods enthusiastically, grinning. "I've been waiting for this _all my life!_"

Michael sighs bitterly. "I _suppose_..." he grumbles, then faces the camera. "Ladies and gentlemen, please give a..._great_ hand to Mrs. Edwards as she wins tonight's prize—" Michael's face contorts into an evil grin as he reaches up and pulls a giant rope that just _happens_ to be dangling over his head. "—_being eaten by giant piranhas!!_"

Terry screams as the floor beneath "him" opens up and Terry falls in. There is a loud _splash_ as he disappears.

Michael, with an even _more_ evil grin now, announces, "Join us here next week for 'WHO'S IN THE LOO?' "

The camera switches back to "Elvis" Cleese in the on-screen loo as he gets up and walks off-camera.

* * *

At the _exact_ same moment that the on-screen John Cleese walked off-camera, John Cleese walked back into the room...wearing an _Elvis_ costume.

"How does he...?" one of the BBC people began, but then just shook his head and said, "Never mind."

* * *

The camera cuts to a Terry Gilliam animation of a stationary "Mrs. Edwards" Terry Jones falling into the water with the previously shown piranha. The piranha licks his lips and raises his fork, a napkin tied around his "neck". Little exclamations of surprise and fear come from "Mrs. Edwards" as the piranha comes closer. It opens its mouth, and—

The head of a British policeman comes out on a Gilliam-elongated neck.

"What's all this then?" he booms.

Mrs. Edwards bounces up and down in the water. "Oh officer, this fish is going to eat me!"

"Don't worry," the policeman assures, "the fish won't eat you."

"That's a rel—" begins Mrs. Edwards, but she cuts off with a blood-curdling scream as the policeman head stretches out and eats her _instead_.

BURP.

The neck and head retract back into the fish and it turns around, swimming away.

The camera cuts to another underwater location, where a giggling fat woman is swimming—scantily clothed but still clothed, in accordance with the guidelines. The piranha's mouth opens and the policeman head shoots out, eating the fat woman while she screams. The neck retracts and the piranha's mouth closes as it swims on.

The camera cuts to a third location, where a magazine cut-out of a six-year-old girl in a dress is standing at the bottom of the ocean. The piranha swims over to her and the policeman's head comes out. However, in a flash the girl turns around and, her mouth animatedly becoming larger, eats the policeman and piranha instead of vice-versa. As the dual organism disappears with screams into her stomach, the girl wipes her mouth with a napkin, pausing only momentarily to emit a small burp.

**SCENE CHANGE!**

The camera cuts to a city street where John Cleese is walking in a business suit, bowler hat and tie. However, John is taking every stride in an exaggerated slow-motiony way. Several other people walk past him on the street in real-time, but John just tips his hat in slow-motion to them. He then keeps going on in slow-motion, turning a corner laboriously and keeping with his slow-motion walk. As he passes in front of a building, he sloooooooooooooooooowwwly walks up to the door, opens it and makes his way inside. As he shuts the door, the camera zooms in on the sign on the door:

"The Institution for Excessively Slow People."

The camera cuts to an interior office view as John Cleese, still moving very slowly, hangs up his hat on a hatrack (where _else_ would he hang it?—

**KA-_BWOOOOSH_.**

Hmm, those American weapons seem to be working quite well.

John Cleese, still moving very slowly, hangs up his hat on a hatrack and makes his way _verrrrrrryyyyyy slooooooowwwwwwwlllllllyyyyyy_ over to his desk, where even _more _slowly he sits down. The intercom on his desk makes a long, slow buzz, and from inside it a feminine voice says slowly, "Sommmmmeooonnnnneeee toooooooooo sssssssssseeeeeeeee yoooooooouuuuuu, ssssssssssssssiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiirrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr."

Excruciatingly slowly, John leans forwards and presses the button on the intercom. "Sssssssseeeeeeeeennnnnnnnnnnddddddddd hhhhhhhhhhiiiiiiiiiimmmmmmmmm iiiiiiinnnnnnn."

Before John even finishes releasing the intercom button, Eric Idle bursts into the room in a ruffled business suit and tie, his hair disarrayed. _Disarrayed_, meaning, of course, an array who has been dissed by his girlfriend.

"HellosirmayIsitdownthankyouverymuchsirthiswillonlytakeamomentIpromisethankyou-somuch," Eric Idle gasps, speaking very quickly and plopping himself almost too quickly to see onto a chair in front of John's desk.

"Yooooouuuuuuuuu mmmmmmmaaaaaaaaayyyyyyyyy sssssiiiiiiiiiiiitttttttttt ddddddddoooooooooowwwwwwwwnnnnnnnn," John announces _eeeeeeeexxxxxxxxxcccccccrrrrrruuuuuuuuuucccccccccccciiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiaaaaaaaaaaattttttttttttttiiiiiiiiiinnnnnnnnngggggggggggglllllllllllllllllllyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy sssssssslllllllllloooooooooowwwwwwllllllllyyyyyyyyy_.

"AhyesthankyouIalreadyhave," Eric Idle announces rapidly. "I'msosorrytodisturbyoubutIhadtospeaktosomeoneandtherewasnooneelsetogotosoIcametoyousiranddoyoumindifIhavesomecoffeethankyousomuchsirandIhopeyoucanhelpme."

John Cleese nodds his head very slowly. "IIIIIIIIIIIIIII ttttthhhhhhhhiiiiiiiiiinnnnnnnkkkkk IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII cccccccccaaaaaaaaaaannnnnnnnnnn hhhhhhhhheeeeeeeeeelllllllllllppppppp yyyyyyyyyyyooooooooouuuuuuuu iiiiiiiiiffffffffffff yyyyyyyyyyyyooooooooooouuuuuuuuuuuuuu tttttttttttteeeeeeeeeeeeelllllllllllll mmmmmmmmmeeeeeeeeeee wwwwwwwwhhhhhhhaaaaaaaaattttttttt yyyyyyyoooooooouuuuuurrrrrrrrr pppppppppprrrrrrrrroooooobbbbbbbllllllllleeeeeeeeeemmm iiiiiiiiiiisssssssssssssssss."

Eric stands up from his seat and begins to pace the room very quickly. "Ireallydon'tknowwhatitisexactlysirbutIhopeyoucanhelpyouseeIhavethisextraordinarilystrangeproblemwhichseemstomakeeveryoneelseItalktosoundveryslow." Eric scratches his head. "InfactevenotherpeoplemovingseemsveryslowtomedoyouknowwhatitissirIhopeyoudooratleastthatyoucanhelpmeohdearthisisverydistressingandIhopeyoudon'tmindifIhaveacrumpetthankyouverymuchIwon'tforgetitnowsircanyoutellmewhatmyproblemis?"

John Cleese moves very slowly to settle back in his chair, then says, "IIIIIIIIIIII ddddddddooooooooonnnnnnnn'tttttttt kkkknnnnnnnnooooooowwwwww."

Eric jumps into the air. "Youdon'tknowohsirIthoughtyouweregoingtoknowohmywhatshallIdonowIdon'tknowmaybeI'llhaveacoffeeandstranglesomesmallanimalsohdearthisisquitedistressing."

"Yyyyyyyyyyyooooooooouuuuuuuu kkkkkkknnnnnnoooooooowwwwwwwww," John Cleese says, leaning forwards on his desk _veeeeeeeeeery slooooooowly_, "IIIIIIIIIIII hhhhhhhhaaaaaaaaaaavvvvvvvvvvveeeeeeee ttttttttttthhhhhhhhhhhhhiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiisssssssssss ppppppppprrrrrrrrrrooooooooobbbbbbbbbbllllllllllllleeeeeeeeemmmmmmm ooooooooffffffffff mmmmmmmmyyyyyyyyy ooooooooowwwwwwwwwnnnnnnn wwwwwwwwwhhhhhhhhheeeeeeeeerrrrrrrreeeeee eeeeeeeeeeevvvvvvvvvveeeeeeeeerrrrrrrryyyyyyyoooooooooonnnnnnnnneeeeee eeeeeeeelllllllllsssssssseeeeeee ssssssseeeeeeeeemmmmmmmsssssss ttttttttooooooo mmmmmmmmooooooovvvvvvvveeeeeee vvvvvvvvvvvveeeeeeeeeeeerrrrrrrrryyyyyyyyy qqqqqqqqqqquuuuuuuuiiiiiiiiiiccccccccckkkkkkkkllllllllllyyyyyyyyy."

As John Cleese sits back excruciatingly slowly, Eric Idle just stands there. Suddenly, he says at a normal pace, "You know what? This sketch is rather silly."

John Cleese (also moving normally again) looks at him thoughtfully before saying, "You know what? It is at that."

Eric scratches his chin. "Would you like a cuppa tea?"

"Sure."

The two men walk out the office door, but the camera continues to show the shot of the office. The camera stays stationary in that position for a while until a Terry Gilliam-animated hammer smashes into the lens, leaving the TV screen blank for a period of a few seconds.

* * *

The female employee smiled a little. "I'm impressed," she admitted. "I didn't think you guys would be capable of keeping it this..._clean_."

Terry Gilliam sidled up to her suggestively. "That's not the _only_ thing we can keep clean," he remarked slyly.

The female employee slapped him across the face.

While the rest of the _Pythons_ (as stated before, not _actual_ giant sna—

**Ka-BLAM!!**

I guess it was a good idea to make multiple replicas of the Holy Hand Grenade of Antioch.

While the rest of the _Pythons_ laughed raucously at Terry's failed attempt at romance, one of Terry Gilliam's own animations started up on the screen.

* * *

A Terry Gilliam figure of a salesman with flashy bright teeth and immaculately combed hair stands in front of a stage with a big curtain. "Hi everybody, I'm Honest Louie Cheater Scum," he announces through his gleaming teeth, "and boy do I have a deal for you!"

The salesmen moves aside as the curtain opens, revealing a very cartoony picture of a brain, looking rather pink and gooshy. "New brains cost so _much_ these days," the salesman sighs as a little sign proclaiming "£1,000,000,000,000,000,000,000.00" pops up in front of the picture of the brain. Then a big red "X" crosses over the brain. "But why pay so _much_ for a _new_ brain," continues the salesman, "when a _used_ one costs so much _less?_"

The brain shown on the screen moves aside as a raggedy, gray-looking one with cobwebs on it pops up instead. "Yes, folks," the salesman announces smugly, "come on down to Honest Louie Cheating Scum's Used Brain Emporium! We'll get you the hottest prices on secondhand brains in town, not to mention some of the _greatest_ secondhand brains around!"

A brain floating in a tank of liquid is wheeled onstage next to the salesmen as the camera switches to a close-up. "See this brain?" the salesman asks, rapping on the tank. ...As in _tapping_ it, not doing one of those disgustingly annoying American songs. "Its only owner was a little old lady who only used it once a week to go shopping. I mean, hey, there's not much mileage on it, it was hardly used, it's in great shape, doesn't it make you want to come down to Honest Louie Cheating Scum's Used Brain Emporium?" The Salesman smiles even wider, and at this point his teeth actually fall out. "But that's not all! If you come down to Honest Louie Cheating Scum's Used Brain Emporium and buy ten brains, we'll give you a _penguin!_ FREE!"

A National Geographic cutout of a penguin pops up at the bottom of the screen with a slight "Quack". The salesman pushes it down out of sight, leaning so far into the camera that his face is the only thing visible on the screen. "Don't wait!" he proclaims. "Come down to Honest Louie Cheating Scum's Used Brain Emporium TODAY!"

As he finishes his speech and draws back, little tendrils of brain start to poke through the tank, reaching out and strangling the salesman. He goes down violently, and the penguin jumps down on top of him as the camera cuts...

**SCENE CHANGE!**

The setup for this next sketch is a jungle. Lots of footage of monkeys and other jungle-ish animals characterizes the setting. Then, once that footage has ended, the camera cuts to the trunk of a large-looking tree (not that it actually _cuts_ the tree, it—

**FWWWWEEEEEEEEEE-OOOOOHHHH...****_SPLAT_.**

The delights of anvils.

Once that footage has ended, the camera cuts to the trunk of a large-looking tree and pans upwards. And pans. And pans. In fact, it pans for so long that the audience must be laughing in confusion by now. And once the camera reaches the top of the tree and stops panning, John Cleese is revealed perched on the uppermost branch in a sparkling pink dress with a wig of long black hair.

"And now," he announces in a rather contrived female voice, "the amazing Skittz O'Frenick will be playing his hit number 'Two of Us' while some silly group called 'Monty Python's Flying Circus' perform _their_ huge hit, 'The End Credits', in the background."

**SCENE CHANGE!**

The camera cuts to a theater where Graham Chapman, looking very nervous and wearing a suit and tie, stands in front of a microphone. The theater is clearly empty except for him. Very hesitantly, he begins to sing, his voice echoing around the _completely empty_ theater:

"_Two of us..._

_Just the two of us..._

_Not too many or too few of us..._

_We'll come through thick and thin..._

_And make it chin-to-chin..._

_The two of us will win, just the two of us..."_

This continues as such while the ending credits play over the sequence.

* * *

As the tape began to end, the BBC officials leaned backwards satisfiedly. "That was very clean," one of the male employees commended the _Pythons_. "Very clean indeed. Good work."

The female employee sighed. "I suppose we'll be giving you that contract after all," she admitted with a hint of a smile. She then turned around to turn off the VCR and rewind the tape when suddenly, at the conclusion of the ending credits, an image of a completely naked woman flashed on the screen. The female employee jumped, then turned to John Cleese. "WHAT?!" she demanded, shaking a quivering finger at the TV screen. "_I THOUGHT THIS SHOW WAS CLEAN! THAT IS CERTAINLY _NOT_ CLEAN!_"

The _Pythons_ looked at each other for a moment, then announced in harmony, "She's clean all right! WE cleaned her OURSELVES!"

And so the curtain closes on what might have been a successful revival of _Monty Python_ism in the twenty-first century. Ah well, back to the drawing board.

We said the show was over. What are you still doing here? Come on, there's nothing more to see. My god, do I have to say it outright?!

(THE END!)

**BANG.**


End file.
